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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25381318">love to flee</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay'>Maple_Fay</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>RuPaul's Drag Race RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, F/F, and feelings, because I love pain, in which Trixie and Katya are basically Hayffie, mostly misdirected but still</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:14:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25381318</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She would love to see her smile, just once.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Trixie Mattel/Katya Zamolodchikova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1. Don’t call her that</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey again! First things first: I do have another fic for these two in work, and awfully neglected, but there is a lot of emotions to go through for me to do it justice.</p>
<p>And in the meantime - I've been diving back into a fandom I haven't been a part of for quite a while, and it struck me how absolutely PERFECT that particular universe would be for T&amp;K. So... here we all are. This one is planned and mostly sketched out, and thus hopefully not going on hiatus.</p>
<p>Great big thanks go to Alice for making me actually sit down, suck it up, and write.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The cold all but suffocates her the moment she steps off the train. She’s less irritated by the fact than by the reality of her family having been right all along—they <em>did</em> say it was going to be much colder out here than in the big city: something she’d decided to ignore at the time, certain that it was yet another try on their behalf to make her hate this assignment before it even started.</p><p>Not that they had anything better to offer, mind. And she’s pretty sure that, should she succeed on the bumpy road to fame and secure a win, they would promptly take it all back, and claimed her victory as theirs. Naturally.</p><p>And so, she simply pulls the pink fur (artificial, of course; she would never kill for anything as pedestrian as food or clothing) adorning her coat tighter around her neck, and nods at the luggage carriers to follow her down the icy platform.</p><p>She only feels her stilettos slip a couple of times, and manages to catch herself before she tumbles. A small win, but a win nonetheless.</p><p>She recognizes the man waiting under the eaves from the file she’s been given at the Center—short, thin (<em>sinewy</em> is the word, she thinks), with a tuff of dirty blonde hair peeking out from under a woolen cap, hand-rolled cigarette hanging from his fingers (dirty, broken nails, she noticed with a slight wince). He gives her a onceover with a sour purse of his lips, something she has been expecting but it still hurts a little.</p><p>“Mattel?” he asks, stubbing the cigarette butt under his boot. His voice is low and raspy, and as he moves away from the wall she catches a glimpse of skin at his throat: bright red and aggravated even after four years. She schools her features into a pleasant smile; her pink-gloved hand twitches slightly as she contemplates proposing a handshake, and quickly decides against it.</p><p>“Hello,” she chirps, partially with actual excitement—he’s the first one she’s ever met <em>in person</em>—partially to hide the shakiness in her voice. “You must be Mr. Boborishkovitch.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes and groans, despite her perfect enunciation. “Don’t, ever. ‘M not my bloody father. It’s Bobo, or Scarlet, if you must.”</p><p>She nods enthusiastically, eager to forge up as pleasant of a work relationship as possible. “Of course. I hope we will make a good team, Bobo.”</p><p>He laughs bitterly and shakes his head, pulling another cigarette out of his large coat’s pocket. “Not me, Mattel. I can’t do <em>shit</em> for you, not anymore. <em>She</em> could, maybe, just… don’t fucking call <em>her</em> by the full name, alright?” He catches her disapproving look but makes nothing of it. “We should go. You ride?”</p><p>“Sidesaddle,” she confirms with confidence: she’s been practicing for weeks, anticipating this very situation. Bobo gives her another look, as if he cannot believe she’s real, jerks his head in the direction where two horses--<em>unsaddled</em>--are waiting, and strikes up a match against the wall.</p><p>“Walking it is.”</p><p>--</p><p>There’s less ice on the road, but it’s replaced by <em>mud</em>: her baby pink shoes get caked in it instantly and she grits her teeth, stubbornly following in Bobo’s footsteps across the main square and refusing to escape to the wooden planks lining the walls. She’s here to stay, and she needs them—first Bobo, and then <em>her</em>—to know that.</p><p>She spends the time looking around, as inconspicuously as possible: at the people, wrapped up in shades of grey; the houses, looking derelict but clearly overflowing with inhabitants; the battered-up shop windows with hardly anything on display. She finally decides to focus on the trees visible in the distance: she thought she knew what woods where, but it's similar to the way she believed herself ready for the late autumn chill: there's <em>so much more of it</em> than she had expected. The air smells pleasantly of pine and wood smoke, making her realize she’s enjoying the rusticity quite a bit. Bobo spares her a look or two, clearly expecting a request to slow down, but once he sees she’s not about to issue one, he slows down a little and lets her fall into step next to him. He still looks unhappy to be here, keeping her company, but his defensiveness gets dialed down a little.</p><p>She knows enough of his personal history to realize that he may not full-on hate her, but he won’t cooperate willingly.</p><p>That’s alright. She still has one option to explore: and if that fails and she needs to overcome his adversity at every step… well. It wouldn’t be the first time in her life.</p><p>Bobo turns right from the square into a narrow, winding alley between the wooden workshops; she can see people and machines through half-iced windows, the noise is starting to give her a terrible headache and she has no idea what’s going on (it’s <em>woodwork</em>, sure, but she’s more than a little hazy on the details), but at least they seem to be getting somewhere. Her feet are turning to ice, she can feel the water sloshing between her toes inside the soaked-through shoes, and she’s ready to have the most important conversation of the day and head off to her temporary accommodation. The sooner, the better.</p><p>And then they turn another corner, and time stops.</p><p>The workshop before them is opened right onto the alley; there are boards and planks stacked on high by the walls, and in the middle of the room: a massive table with a saw-like tool, sawdust flying everywhere. Two people are working on it: a slight, dark-haired girl in a grey jumpsuit cinched with a massive tool belt, and a woman with dirty blonde ponytail sticking out from between the red handkerchief wrapped around her head. Her face, adorned with a pair of heavy work glasses, is covered by another piece of cloth, green with blue swirls, the colors clashing terribly with mustard yellow shade of her sleeveless jumpsuit. There are sweat marks under her armpits and down her back, and the way the black lines of her tattoos move as she throws another plank on the workshop and aligns it to go through the blades is just… mesmerizing. It’s sheer power and strength, and how she moves, working with the girl in perfect unison, makes the otherwise bleak action look like a stage play.</p><p>Bobo, naturally, is not impressed by any of this. He walks straight up to the evil looking blade, pats the young girl on the shoulder and flips a switch, making the blade slow down and stop with a deafening screech. The masked woman turns to him, an uncut plank still in her hands, and raises her shoulder in annoyance. The girl rushes over to replace the plank on the stack, spares one look at the stranger waiting not so patiently in the mud, and walks to the back of the shop.</p><p>“Hey, don’t come at me,” Bobo says, approaching the other woman with defensively raised hands. “She’s here. Your turn, sweet cheeks.”</p><p>The carpenteress growls and unwraps the material from her face, pushes the glasses up to her forehead.</p><p>She knew she’d be stunning—she’s seen enough of her recent pictures, and still remembers the first time she'd appeared on national television, looking completely out of place but still absolutely gorgeous—but she was completely unprepared for the raw magnetism emanating from the ice-blue eyes lined with what looks like smeared coal, the sharp line of her jawline and cheekbones--and that <em>mouth</em>!...</p><p>She would love to see her smile, just once.</p><p>As it is, she swallows the sudden rush of emotion at the cold hatred the woman’s features have hardened into, and takes a gamble.</p><p>“Miss Zamolodchikova,” she smiles, ignoring Bobo rolling his eyes in the background, “a pleasure to finally meet you. My name is Beatrice Mattel—the new escort for District Seven. I’m here to inform you that your services as a mentor are required for the upcoming Games.”</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>/TBC</em>
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2. Don’t count on me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, alright, the cat's out of the bag. Thoughts? Put them into the comments, or find me on Tumblr @maplefay ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She half-expects the Victor Village to be made of wood—it <em>is</em> the Lumber District, after all—but the houses look very much like those she’d glimpsed in video feeds from other Districts: grey concrete and stone, looming over a small, oval square where not a single tree grows. She swallows down a shiver, following in Zamolodchikova’s footsteps, her feet positively numb with cold.</p><p>Inside, the house is even less welcoming: no longer muddy and cold, but messy and suffocating in a completely new way. The hallway opens into a living area full of broken tools, scraps of fabric pinned haphazardly to random furniture in a misguided attempt to decorate, what look like amateurish tries at taxidermy (she narrowly avoids stepping on a possum and almost dies of a heart attack), bunches of herbs and tangled skeins. Further down towards the back, Beatrice notices a battered stove and sink—this must be what passes for a kitchen in this household. Apparently, <em>cooking</em> is not a priority for her hostess—not judging from the number of half-emptied bottles of liquor littering the windowsills and piled up in the corners. She catches a whiff from one of the uncorked ones, and momentarily mistakes it for turpentine or something of that ilk: but Zamolodchikova throws back a mouthful of similarly colored liquid without a second of hesitation. Beatrice decides that the smell must come from pine nuts or fresh sprouts: after all, there are no vineyards in Seven and grain is sparse—and people <em>will</em> find a way to manufacture alcohol, her teacher at the Center had said. This, at least, is true.</p><p>Speaking of alcohol: she wouldn’t have minded a glass of wine, herself; even some tea would be a blessing. She needs to get through this conversation and get out, look for the old escort’s house and make herself a cup: there’s clearly on point in relying on the carpenteress on the hospitality front.</p><p>They can get to know each other tomorrow, once she’s rested and cleaned herself up.</p><p>She clears her throat and takes a confident step towards the victor, promptly crushing something under her heel. Ouch. “Miss Zamolodchikova—”</p><p>“For fuck’s sake,” the other woman snarls, her back to Beatrice, “My name is <em>Katya</em>. Zamo, if you must. Didn’t Bobo tell you?”</p><p><em>He did, but without mentioning how touchy of a subject this was—or why to avoid it, for that matter.</em> “Apologies, Miss—<em>Zamo</em>. There’s no need to be vulgar, though.”</p><p>Katya turns around, slowly and deliberately, and Beatrice clears her throat again—this time, at the sight of her jumpsuit having been unzipped almost to the waist, showing off a fair amount of pale skin stretched over muscle, and a plain black bra. (Beatrice knows about underwear; she even fancies herself a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to lingerie: and yet, she feels completely mesmerized by the simple piece of cloth. From the look of lazy satisfaction on Katya’s face, she suspects that she has been caught.) “Honey, oh, honey,” she singsongs, slurring slightly, and takes another sip from her bottle, “you ain’t heard nothing yet. What do I call you, again?”</p><p>“Beatrice Mattel,” she reminds her politely, shifting her weight in wet shoes that become more and more uncomfortable by the minute.</p><p>“Charming,” Katya mutters under her breath, putting the bottle away and folding her arms defensively. “Well, then, <em>Beatrice Mattel</em>—what happened to ‘Pest? Wasn’t he the token victor you Capitols were all falling over like bloody flies?”</p><p><em>Ah</em>.</p><p>She did not expect to get here so quickly.</p><p>“Mr DuJour is… gone,” she admits hesitantly, immediately noticing the change in Katya’s stance: no longer nonchalant or feigning intoxication, she squares her shoulders and gives Beatrice a long, heavy look.</p><p>“<em>Dead</em>, gone, or <em>gone</em>, gone?” she demands coldly. “And regardless of that—how bad did ol’ Davis fuck up to be replaced by the likes of <em>you</em>, princess? Shouldn’t you be at home, playing with your dollies and candy floss?”</p><p>Beatrice straightens her back, feeling righteously furious on Kasiopeia Davis’s behalf (even if the older escort did prefer a rather pedestrian nickname), <em>and</em> on her own: one’s proclivity towards baby pinks should <em>not</em> immediately disqualify them as competent in their chosen career. (A career that’s lasted a whole of fourteen hours as of now, but she’s not about to disclose that.) “I will have you know that I completed all required courses with special acknowledgements from—“</p><p>“Easy, kid,” Katya waves her protests away, making Beatrice bristle even more. “Not talking about you now. ‘Pest, remember? What’s with that?”</p><p>“We are conducting a thorough investigation—“</p><p>“…which is Capitolese for ‘you know shit’. Okay. And you don’t have anyone else.” Her face is drawn and empty; she picks the bottle up again, swirls the contents. “’Cause Bobo sure as <em>hell</em> ain’t going back. Did you see his neck?” she asks out of the blue, fixing Beatrice with a challenging stare. “Did you know the skin won’t heal, not where the noose was? Fucking bastards, the lot of you. And now you want to fuck <em>me</em> up. Brilliant.”</p><p>“There is no one else,” Beatrice points out gently, wringing her hands, “and Mr. DuJour might still come back before… before it all starts. If Kasha is with him, or if she finds him in time—“</p><p>“Wait, what?” Genuine interest sparks up in Katya’s eyes, and she <em>almost</em>, but no quite, smirks. "They split <em>together</em>?” She shakes her head incredulously, takes a swig of the liquor while holding Beatrice’s gaze. “You must be <em>really</em> young to believe they’d be pardoned if the judge proves they acted together. That's simply not done, kid—an escort and a victor.” It appears then, finally: a smile, a <em>smirk</em>, cruel and crooked, and making Beatrice’s cheeks burn under her makeup. “Sorry, princess.”</p><p>“I have no clue what you mean,” Beatrice declares, fixing her with a hard stare. “And I would appreciate it if you showed the appropriate decorum.”</p><p>Katya straight up <em>snorts</em> into her drink at that. “Look, sweetheart—I don’t have a choice, so we’re stuck together, but let me tell you this: if you hoped this might launch up your <em>career</em>, perish the thought. I’m not the one.”</p><p>“You might be, though. You might mentor a winner, Zamo. Another female victor for Seven. Wouldn’t you like that? Your friend from the shop…”</p><p>“Leave Violet way out of this,” Katya growls, and Beatrice immediately drops the subject. “She can stab a bitch well enough without going to a bloody arena to prove it. And she better stay the <em>fuck</em> home.”</p><p>“You know this is not in my power to decide,” Beatrice points out. “The point of the Games is…"</p><p>“I <em>know</em> about the point of the Games, don’t be obnoxious. Do you even <em>remember</em> when I was there?”</p><p>“Of course!” There’s the bristling again; why does this woman aggravate her so? True, she did not expect any step of this process to be <em>easy</em>, exactly, but why is Katya able to get under her skin so easily? (She thinks she knows the answer to this question, if she's being honest with herself, but when has she ever been that, truly?) And apparently Katya knows a thing or two about her conundrum, because the look she’s giving her is downright <em>dirty</em>.</p><p>“Do you, now?" she asks, walking slowly towards her in half-undone work uniform, smirking knowingly, smelling of wood and sweat, and looking far too sure of herself. “How old were you, then? Ten, eleven? Did you root for me? Put my holo-pic on your wall? Did you <em>cry</em> when I killed that first girl? Because <em>I</em> did. And I <em>never</em> wanted to be a part of it again.”</p><p>The smirk is gone, replaced by cold, calculated anger that makes Beatrice’s blood chill.</p><p>“So don’t count on me, little girl. We’ll do it, and hopefully Seven wins, and I’ll be out of your hair—and there’s a lot to be out of,” she adds off-handedly, pointing a finger at the escort’s wig, “—and we’ll never see each other again.”</p><p>She toasts Beatrice with the almost empty bottle and drinks, her throat working furiously.</p><p>“You want to try? Okay, we try. Wanna talk strategy? We can talk strategy. Come by the shop tomorrow. Wear something… else. <em>Anything</em> else.</p><p>“Now get the hell out of my house.”</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>/TBC</em>
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 3. Don’t get them killed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The week leading up to the reaping is possibly the gloomiest in Beatrice’s life.</p><p>She meets with Zamolodchikova—she doesn’t quite manage to call her Katya in her own head, so after their first meeting she sticks to <em>Zamo</em>, and steers clear of the last name when they talk—twice, and each time they end up exchanging none too subtle insults, instead of talking anything even remotely related to strategy.</p><p>Surprisingly, she spends most of her time with Bobo—not <em>walking around</em>, exactly, that’s frowned upon whether you’re a brand new escort accompanied by a well-liked victor or not—but talking about the people here, their work, their ways; after a day or two she realizes that these conversations, although well meant, are making her a little bit apprehensive towards the idea of reaping the kids from this community, so she steers the topics clear off the unsafe ground. She would not be dissuaded from her responsibilities; from her <em>beliefs</em>, no less.</p><p>Once they stop talking about it, though, everything starts to become stuffy and oppressive: there is no more <em>connection</em>, no more common ground. She wonders if there ever <em>had</em> been such a thing in the first place.</p><p>Probably not. It’s just her wishful thinking, the naivety, as her mother would undoubtedly say. She can see the way people look at her when she’s in the streets. It’s not what she’d imagined, back in the Capitol: she thought she would be praised for her fashion style and charisma, uniqueness and nerve; her <em>integrity</em> and devotion to her work. She has a purpose now; she’s serving a bigger cause.</p><p>Nobody here sees it that way.</p><p>They mock her behind her back: the way she dresses, the elaborate wigs, the makeup she’s spent so much time perfecting. They call her names from afar—almost out of earshot, so that she can make out the intention, but not the precise words or the person uttering them. It a new sensation: she’s used to being envied (from <em>before</em>) and admired, and pitied (from <em>after</em>), but to be <em>hated </em>in such a way is… unsettling.</p><p>She asks Bobo, just once, on the day she learns they probably should stop talking altogether: “What should I do to make them like me? Just a little?”</p><p>Bobo scratches at the red marks on his neck, an unconscious gesture he repeats with frightening frequency. “Go home, Mattel. Go back to the Capitol.”</p><p>And, of course, that’s the one thing she cannot do.</p><p>--</p><p>She cannot call the Center for news on Davis and DuJour—they would think she was looking forward to relinquishing her escort duties in lieu of Kasha, and it is <em>not</em> the case; she might wish for another victor to work with, but she wants to keep this job, despite everything. (And either way, where would she go?) In the end, she decides on the next best thing, and calls Courtney down in Eight, marveling at how much better the connection is now that they’re only a district apart.</p><p>Courtney sounds positively <em>thrilled</em> to be back—it’s her third year in the Textile District, and she’s been <em>buying</em> <em>so much fabric, Trixie!</em>—and eager to gossip about the state of things back in the Capitol. Not that she knows much about Seven’s favorite victor and his escort—apparently the whole <em>affair</em> has not been made public, so Beatrice is left scrambling for topics to discuss, after swallowing down her disappointment.</p><p>“How’s your victor?” she asks, because it’s only polite to do so. Courtney laughs and hums, probably taking a generous sip of whatever cocktail she’s enjoying.</p><p>“Sharp as ever.” It’s a running joke with Eight—Bianca del Rio, arguably the most prominent victor alive, is known for three things: her acerbic sense of humor, her wickedly good sewing skills (she collaborates with a different stylist each year, and whoever she ends up working with rises to instant recognition and fame), and the fact that she killed eighteen tributes within the first day of her Games, by shooting needle-like poison darts at them. <em>Sharp</em> indeed. “Never mind her, though—how’s the infamous <em>Zamo</em>? As dreamy as I think?”</p><p>Beatrice doesn’t think she means “inviting herself into people’s embarrassingly vivid dreams”, so she lets the question slide, talking about Bobo and his workshop instead.</p><p>She doesn’t think Courtney’s buying it—whatever <em>it</em> she is selling—but they don’t mention Zamolodchikova again.</p><p>Still, that very night Beatrice dreams again—of Zamo’s lips, curled into a snarl at whatever Beatrice has said; she says something unintelligible, and then the snarl disappears, replaced by a smile, warm and gentle, one that Beatrice’s only seen from afar, directed at the dark-haired apprentice from Zamo’s workshop. Katya gets closer, somehow, reaches out…</p><p>Beatrice wakes up.</p><p>She blames her half-conscious state for the smoothness with which her hand drifts downwards, reaching into the embarrassingly wet heat between her legs; she crests and falls gently against her own fingers, and falls back into dreamless slumber.</p><p>--</p><p>On the morning of the reaping, Beatrice styles an elaborate, silvery blonde wig into a complex nest of braids, in honor of Seven’s favorite hairdo, secures it with leaf-shaped pins and dons on a bright green frock, giving her reflection a stern look. “Behave,” she says to herself, tries out a few smiles, and leaves the room without a second glance.</p><p>The ceremony goes through without any serious hitches. Beatrice is bright, she smiles a lot, presses a hand to her chest at the appropriate moments, and doesn’t miss a beat when she’s greeted with stony silence as she approaches the glass containers in which the children’s names lie, written down on unfeeling paper.</p><p>It feels almost surreal, to suddenly have them approach the stage and climb the stairs: the girl, red haired and looking about fifteen, is aptly named Ginger—Beatrice thinks she might actually stand a chance—the boy, twiggy and short (he cannot be more that thirteen), is called Maximus, which doesn't quite go with his physique. Beatrice embraces both of them quickly, giving them reassuring smiles and encouraging the audience to applaud: there isn't much of it, but at least nobody cries or throws themselves at the escort: incidents <em>have</em> happened, that much she knows. Once the children are guided into the Justice Building, she turns around to the wings where Zamo and Bobo are standing, ashen-faced and subdued. She squares her  shoulders and fixes Zamo with a cold stare, until the victor rolls her eyes and looks back at her. "<em>What</em>?"</p><p>“Here they are,” she says, waving a gloved hand towards the doors swinging shut. “The children. This year’s tributes. Do you have <em>any</em> idea what your strategy in training them is going to be?”</p><p>Zamo has the decency to forego a shrug and look just a little unsure. “Whatever it takes, I reckon.”</p><p>Beatrice nods, catching Bobo’s eye—he doesn’t look convinced that Zamo can actually pull it off, but she wants to give her the benefit of a doubt. (And it has nothing to do with the strange tingling in her fingers when she looks at the carpenteress.)</p><p>“Good,” she nods, hiding the tremor by clasping her hands forcefully. “Just… don’t get them killed, Zamo.”</p><p>The victor nods, and for the first time since they’ve met Beatrice feels they are a <em>team</em>, working towards a common goal.</p><p>“Not if I can help it, princess. ”</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>/TBC</em>
  </strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 4. Don't talk to them</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You realize I have never done this before, right?”</p><p>With the children having retired to their rooms hours ago, and the lights in the bar car turned down low (except for the table lamp illuminating the ton of papers cluttering her desk), Beatrice has almost forgotten about Zamo, lounging wordlessly in an armchair and balancing a tumbler of whisky and ice (well, <em>whisky flavored water</em> at this point) on her knee. She manages to contain a startled yelp, turning it into a hum of confirmation.</p><p>“Well, neither have <em>I</em>, not in this capacity. But I worked on a prep team twice, so…”</p><p>“You did the makeup, right? You’re good at it.”</p><p>It’s the first marginally positive thing the victor has ever said to her, and Beatrice blushes furiously, deeply grateful for the low light in the compartment. “Yes, I did. And thank you.” <em>Back to the point</em>, she thinks; she needs to steer the conversation carefully. “I know <em>some</em> of what goes into mentoring. And I have my training. We will manage.” Her voice is strong and steady, even though she feels thrown and uneasy. Will they? Will they <em>really</em>?</p><p>Zamo clearly has similar reservations, because she snorts softly into her poor excuse of a drink. “<em>Manage</em>. Easier said than done, princess.”</p><p>Beatrice rolls her eyes and closes Ginger’s dossier she’s been studying for the past half-hour; Max’s is next, but she’s not looking forward to starting on it yet. “Must you always call me that? Can’t you use my <em>name</em>, like a normal person?” She doesn’t bring up the fact that, apart from the initial slipup, she’s been consistently avoiding calling her <em>Zamolodchikova</em>. Surely, the same courtesy could be extended to—</p><p>“I don’t like it,” Zamo shrugs unapologetically. “Who would ever name their child <em>Beatrice</em>?”</p><p>“It’s from an ancient book—<em>The Divine Comedy</em>,” she explains, righteously furious. “And from a poem my father used to recite.” She furrows her brows, pretending to have a hard time remembering, even though the words are etched in her heart—and on the underside of her right arm. “<em>For there’s no heaven or earth, abyss, or hellish circle. There is but Beatrice, and she’s the one that’s gone.</em>” She takes a few seconds to compose herself, and opens up Max’s dossier without looking back at Zamo. “My friends call me Trixie,” she adds, as if in afterthought. She’s not friends with Zamo, not even close—why would she even volunteer such information?</p><p>“<em>Trixie</em>.” The victor tastes the nickname on her tongue, then gives a sharp nod. “Alright. Trixie, then. <em>Trix</em>, maybe. I can work with that.” She stands up, abandoning the watered-down whisky on a nearby table. “What do I do with these, <em>Trixie</em>?” she asks, raising up a bunch of folders, including Ginger’s dossier.</p><p>The escort raises her eyebrows, slightly disturbed by the gentle fluttering inside her chest. “Why? Have you decided to help me, then?”</p><p>Zamo looks at her in studious silence, and perches a hip at the edge of the cluttered desk. Beatrice hears the faint squeak of leather pants shifting against skin, and crosses her legs under the table. “It was the first time I saw it since mine, you know.”</p><p>It takes a moment to figure out her meaning, and Beatrice frowns slightly. “Reapings are mandatory viewing, are they not?”</p><p>Zamo shrugs and stares off into space. “The machine was on alright. I simply never <em>saw it</em>, you understand?”</p><p>She nods and bites her lip, suddenly aware of what it must have meant to Zamo, seeing (or <em>not</em> seeing, as it were) all those kids, stepping up the steps the way she had, and never coming back. “There will be time for you to talk to them, tell them whatever you find might be… beneficial, in the Games. Train them, if possible. That’s the half of it—the other half is publicity: interviews, parties, getting in touch with potential sponsors.”</p><p>Zamo furrows her brows and walks over to the window, looks out into the darkness. “’Pest liked that stuff,” she says slowly, reaching back for her drink and wincing at the taste. “He loved being around people, buttering them up, talking a good game. I have to warn you, Trix—I’m not the one. Hell, I guess by now nobody in the Capitol is even going to remember me.”</p><p> “Oh, that’s <em>so</em> untrue!” Beatrice exclaims, slamming the dossier shut with gusto. “Of <em>course</em> they remember you! You’re the <em>elusive</em> Katya Zamolodchikova, the victor that’s never seen, the <em>one that got away</em>—when the media catch wind of your involvement in this year’s Games, everybody will want to get close to you: <em>which means we have a fair chance to win this year</em>!” She can already <em>feel it</em>, vibrating through her bones, the excitement of the public once they catch sight of her, grumbly and unkempt as she is. Katya is a force of nature if she wants—and Beatrice hopes beyond hope that she <em>would</em> want to.  “You will be the catch of the season, Zamo. The real star.”</p><p>Zamo watches her attentively, her lips curled up into a smirk that’s almost soft enough to call it a smile. Beatrice frowns at that, and the victor blinks, losing the softness completely.  “Is that how <em>you</em> saw me, Trixie?” she drawls, leaning back on her hands. “Thought I was a star? Did <em>you</em> ever think me <em>elusive</em>?”</p><p>She bristles and sputters, knowing very well that she’s been caught. “I certainly remember the year you won,” she settles for a half-truth, reopening the dossier and avoiding Zamo’s eye, “and from that fact alone I reckon we may have a chance to make a statement this year. I <em>also</em> booked a renowned stylist this year—she’s bound to make the children look <em>fabulous</em>.”</p><p>Zamo looks at her with the kind of indulging detachment people usually save for small children, and Beatrice bristles inwardly. (The worse thing is, she knows she’s going to remember the softness of her eyes later in the night, and extrapolate from it until she falls, again.) “Sure, Trix, whatever you say,” she hums, pouring the remnants of her drink into a plant pot and promptly fixing herself another one, the silver ice tongs glistening in the low light. “Whatever you say,” she repeats lazily, and gestures at Max’s dossier with her glass. “Can I take that? I’ll try to make it to breakfast tomorrow, maybe say a few things to the kids. ‘Don’t get them killed,’ was it?”</p><p>Beatrice fixes her with an unimpressed stare, but hands the file over without a fuss (and to avoid any further conversation on this very evening). “That would be appreciated, yes.”</p><p>Zamo slaps both dossiers against her palm and grins, much too smugly for Beatrice's liking. “Alright, then. You sort out the stylist and make the kids presentable—I’ll charm up some disgusting Capitols, and get them support.” Her eyes are wide, almost manic, focused completely on Beatrice's face. “We’ll be the best team ever; we’ll win the damned Games, never do it again, and live happily ever after. How does that sound?”</p><p>Beatrice nods and clears her throat around the sudden tight dryness —this is too much already, what with Zamo suddenly being so cooperative, and everything working out so well… She watches the victor’s retreating back, feeling a surge of optimism rise in her chest like a flame.</p><p>This year is going to be great, and Seven will definitely win.</p><p>She just needs to sort out some final arrangements with the stylist, and they’re <em>on</em>.</p><p>--</p><p>She is going to <em>kill</em> the stylist before the Games begin, she’s sure of it.</p><p>She’s ridiculously happy for using her own clothes for the night—a pale pink dress with a subtle leaf pattern, covered with fresh apple and cherry blossoms, and a matching headpiece—she wouldn’t be caught <em>dead</em> in anything the Seven’s stylist ever touched. For the opening ceremony, the stuck-up, freshly-out-of-design-school woman put Ginger in a puffy, moss-green mini-dress, making her look perfectly <em>round</em>. For Max, she designed a cut-out version of a lumberjack’s costume in brown velvet, which had the boy seem even twiggier in comparison to the girl he's been paired with.</p><p>They caused quite a few laughs from the assembled crowd, and Caesar did <em>not</em> go easy on them. It's a small mercy that Beatrice is the only one to have heard the commentary: the children were down there, in their chariot, while Zamo refused to come and watch the ceremony from the lounge, claiming she needed to get ready for the after party; for once, she seems determined to play the game and get at least a couple of sponsors for the kids.</p><p>Beatrice prays to all things sacred that “getting ready” is <em>not</em> code for “getting wasted on someone’s home brew”, because she herself hasn’t had quite enough to drink to face off with her inebriated victor. At it is, the party is in full swing and she’s nursing a colorful concoction that relies heavily on vodka and edible glitter, pretending to pay <em>all the attention</em> to whatever Courtney is discussing with Nine's fashionable escort, Shea—until she hears a faint murmur of appreciation rising up from the area around the entrance, turns to look: and promptly forgets all about the outside world.</p><p>Katya Zamolodchikova is standing in the doorway, wearing a gown that is not certainly <em>not </em>a work of their stylist. The floor-length, velvet creation in deep, shimmering green (and subtly worked-in undertones of rich red, replicated in the shade of her lipstick) has a subtle boat neckline, revealing very little of Katya’s décolletage, but leaving plenty to imagination. Her hair is swept back, brushed out into a wave of glistering white-gold and weaved into three slim braids at each temple, and she’s wearing… not precisely a <em>tiara</em>, but an ornate band of platinum encrusted with green and red jewels, seemingly catching all the light in the room. Somebody taps her shoulder, making her turn away from Beatrice, and reveal the true star of the ensemble: the dress is backless, the rich fabric draped tastefully just over the curve for Katya’s buttocks, and held in place by two crisscrossing chains of the same jewels, green and red and shining softly against soft, pale skin. Katya laughs politely at whatever the man beside her says, and when she shifts her weight, Beatrice catches sight of her shoes: no fancy heels, no, but a pair of sturdy, though fashionable, red leather boots.</p><p>This is still <em>her</em>, but refined, Beatrice thinks with sudden relief, and swallows. Why is her mouth so dry? It’s only <em>Zamo</em>, after all. Only Katya. Only… <em>her</em>.</p><p>“What happened, Trixie? Cat got your tongue?” Courtney singsongs by her ear, but pauses as she realizes what’s caught her friend’s attention. “Or, should I say, a <em>pussy</em>?”</p><p>Beatrice can feel the blush flare up in her face and travel downwards, past her neck and onto her cleavage. She’s never been more grateful for full-coverage makeup in her <em>life</em>. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Courtney,” she singsongs, taking another long slurp (<em>very</em> unladylike) from her glass. Shea turns to look at the commotion by the door and hums appreciatively.</p><p>“This is nice,” she remarks as Zamo finally joins them, taking her sweet time to walk the short distance between the door and the refreshments table, and knowing very well that all eyes in the room are fixed solely on her. (For some reason, <em>Zamo’s</em> eyes are fixed on <em>Beatrice</em>, making the escort’s skin crawl in the most amazing and unexpected way. She has no idea what she’s done to earn this, but she’s eager to keep on doing it.) “Doesn’t look like anything your stylist’s made, though.”</p><p>Zamo laughs merrily, stopping a passing waiter to pick two flutes of champagne from his tray. “To be fair, young lady—“ she fixes Shea with a look that leaves Beatrice irritated to a previously unknown degree, “—our <em>renowned stylist</em> had absolutely <em>nothing</em> to do with it. This bitch did.” She turns and presents one of the glasses to Bianca del Rio, looking absolutely splendid in an ocean blue gown adorned with aquamarines and amethysts, wrapping her newly freed arm around the Eight's victor's waist. “Thanks, sweetheart.”</p><p>Bianca flashes her perfect grin, begrudgingly allowing Zamo to press a fleeting kiss to her hairline. “You needed it, girl. Now, at least, you look <em>almost</em> presentable.”</p><p>“Bitch,” Zamo mutters lovingly, swirling her champagne around, and smiles at Courtney and Shea—the kind of smile Beatrice is yet to see, brilliant and dazzling, and apparently <em>working</em>, because Courtney gets a dangerous glint in her eye. “You don’t look half-bad yourself, I must be rubbing off on you.”</p><p>“You <em>wish</em>, Zamo.”</p><p>“But I do-on’t,” Zamo singsongs, making everybody in the vicinity laugh loudly. The screeching sound coming out of some older woman’s throat makes Beatrice snaps rapidly out of her reverie. Oh, Zamo is <em>good</em>. Very good, even.</p><p>She sort of wishes she wasn’t.</p><p>Zamo doesn’t look at her directly, but she must have noticed something in the escort’s behavior, for she directs another toothy grin at the onlookers, and releases Bianca’s waist. “As much as I’d love to continue this tête-à-tête, I need to actually do some work tonight, unlike some people I know.” Bianca cackles madly, but Zamo is no longer looking at the other victor. “Miss Mattel, a moment of your time?”</p><p>Beatrice blinks in amazement, but the hours upon hours of training kick in swiftly—thankfully. “Of course,” she replies sweetly, nodding at Courtney and Shea. “I’ll see you later, ladies.”</p><p>“If you say so,” Courtney mutters into her glass, but Beatrice chooses to ignore her. Wishful thinking can only take a person <em>that</em> far.</p><p>She follows Zamo out onto the terrace, making several stops for the victor to receive compliments on her dress, her makeup, and her decision to finally <em>join the fun</em>. Zamo is a picture of merriment, smiling at people, touching them in a naturally tactile way Beatrice would never expect of her, and listening to all kinds of gossip with devoted attentiveness. She’s a player, a <em>good</em> player. Not at all the woman who stood across from Beatrice in a barren kitchen in Seven, showing too much skin and telling the escort to forget about getting any kind of help in the Games.</p><p>And yet.</p><p>The question is the very first thing out of Beatrice’s mouth, once they find a relatively quiet corner of the terrace, separated from the crowd with a large fan Zamo wields like a weapon. “What’s wrong with you?” she whispers urgently, looking around for anyone that could be listening. “This isn't <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Zamo watches her closely over the rim of her glass. “I’m playing the game, Trixie,” she explains slowly, as if talking to a small child. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”</p><p>“It was! It <em>is</em>,” Beatrice insists in a low voice, squeezing her hands into fists and bristling under Zamo’s amused gaze. “I just—don’t understand. What you said on the train—it was promising, yes, but <em>this</em>? This is—“</p><p>“All you, baby girl.”</p><p>She stops, gaping at Zamo with open mouth. <em>Most </em>inelegant. “What?”</p><p>Zamo looks down at the flute in her hands, a ghost of smile on her lips. “You remember that little speech you made on the train? About us having a chance to win?”</p><p>“Well, yes; and I <em>still</em> think we—“</p><p>“So here’s the thing,” Zamo interrupts her, waving an impatient hand that lands on the cuff of Beatrice’s sleeve, “you said ’we ’. Davis would never—she was all about winning, but she always said <em>Seven</em>, or <em>the tributes</em>, or whatever. You were the first person I ever heard talking about District people as part of the same group as the escorts. You looked like you cared for those kids. “ Zamo quirks her brow, looks up at Beatrice with guarded eyes. “Do you really?”</p><p>“Of course! I really—“ <em>don’t want them to die</em> “—hope they win. That <em>we</em> win. We’re a team, Zamo. And I thank you for doing… everything you have, so far.” Beatrice swallows and wrings her hands together, noticing that Zamo is still holding on to her sleeve, really, <em>really</em> close to the sliver of bare skin between it and the silk glove. “I know you’re not happy about it.”</p><p>Zamo watches her closely, and takes a minute step closer, her fingers pulling at the fabric of Beatrice’s dress. “I think I would have hated it much more with Davis,” she says matter-of-factly. “With <em>anyone else</em>, probably. If I <em>have to</em> be here—I’m glad it’s with you, Trixie. You make this whole ordeal… bearable.”</p><p>Beatrice bristles instantly, but Zamo’s eyes are surprisingly soft in the low light, and any protests she might want to voice die on her lips. "Zamo, I—“</p><p>The anthem blares through the outdoor speakers and they both startle, the moment lost. Beatrice musters on her brave smile, straightens her back. “Right! So—they’re going to announce the new Head Gamemaker tonight. I have <em>no</em> idea who’s it going to be, but Zamo, this is important: try to make them notice you, alright? I know it’s a lot to ask, but—“</p><p>“Relax, Trix,” Zamo mutters in a low voice, taking Beatrice’s elbow (her hand feels hot through the embroidered material) and steering her back towards the large glass door. “I’ll be fine. <em>We’ll</em> be fine. You can make it up to me later. ”</p><p>Beatrice doesn’t have a chance to react to that statement—she probably wouldn’t even know how—when the door Zamo’d walked through not long ago opens again, revealing a stunning figure flanked by fifteen or so people—junior gamemakers, some of them new, some quite familiar. Beatrice doesn’t notice them, though, focused solely on the center figure.</p><p>The person is <em>tall</em>, easily seven feet, plus outrageously high heels. They are wearing a garment that is a perfect combination of a classic suit and a <em>ball gown</em>—something that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but they pull it off with ease. Their makeup is flawless, accentuating sharp features brought out in contrast with clean-shaved head, and it's, it's—Beatrice swallows hard, gripping Zamo’s hand.</p><p>Rex. Paulus <em>bloody</em> Rex.</p><p>The one who refused to grant her the escort’s position, twice.</p><p>The individual mostly likely responsible for <em>that thing that almost happened to her family, which she is not supposed to talk about, ever</em>.</p><p><em>This</em> is the Gamemaker in her first year?</p><p>She feels faint.</p><p>“Trixie?” she hears Zamo’s whisper next to her ear, but she’s unable to focus on anything but the person floating proudly through the room before her. “You alright?”</p><p>“Don’t talk to Rex,” she manages to whisper back through clenched teeth. “I don’t care what they can do for the children, I’m sorry—it’s not a coincidence, and they’ll <em>use you</em>, Katya, in whatever capacity, and I couldn’t—“</p><p>“It’s the first time you called me that, you know?”</p><p>Beatrice squeezes her eyes shut, fake eyelashes digging into the apples of her cheeks. “Promise me you won’t—“</p><p>“Miss Zamolodchikova?”</p><p>One of Rex’s assistants, a dashing young man in a neon paisley-patterned suit, materializes himself before them, reaching out an expectant hand. “The Gamemaker requests the pleasure of your company.”</p><p>Katya meets Beatrice’s eyes for a fraction of a second, and takes the proffered hand without missing a beat. “Naturally, darling.</p><p>“Do lead the way.”</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>/TBC</em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay, so: apologies for the delay in posting, but things have been a mess of late (TW violence and homophobia); last Friday Polish police brutally attacked LGBT+ youths protesting the arrest of a young activist (she's non-binary, using female pronouns, and was just sentenced to two months in MALE prison, for... destroying property, aka. a truck decorated with homophobic slogans that's been happily cruising the streets of Warsaw), arrested some people, held them without legal council, and... well. I've never been this scared in my LIFE, and in the last year or so a THIRD of my country has declared itself (by means of local councils' decisions/law-making) an "LGBT-free zone", so I guess that's saying something.</p><p>For more info on the subject, you might want to check out Jinkx Monsoon's IG (they made a post; Milk and Aquaria added some links to their stories). Any chance you might get to spread the word (official media didn't say A THING about it) on what's going on in Poland AND Belarus (where the people protesting fixed presidential election are being beaten up in the streets) is more than welcome. Thank you in advance.</p><p>This chapter is on a longish side, but I hope it hasn't been too much of a bore. FYI, Katya is wearing an elevated version of the dress I met Jinkx and Dela in; unfortunately, Katya and myself DON'T share a designer, though... Great. Big. THANK YOU, to everyone who's read, liked, and commented on this story. I love y'all to bits.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 5. Don't doubt me.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In an unexpected turn of events, I am back, and relatively well: Miss Rona affected my family only slightly, the anti-LGBT (and the anti-choice, pro-life, 'make-all-women-carry-to-term-even-if-the-child-is-grieviously-ill' one - Google it) movement in Poland remains a serious issue, but we are finding new ways to fight against it; I am disillusioned with my job and my family, and feeling the lockdown pressing down on me -- but HEY, I'm STILL here, and hopefully will continue 'being here' for a little while longer.</p>
<p>Great thanks to everyone who left kudos and commented on this story during my prolonged absence: this update is for you.</p>
<p>I'm borrowing a (not quite expressly worded) concept for this chapter from my very favourite Hunger Games fanfic - "Invictus" by EllanaSan here on AO3. Go and give it a read if you have time, it's amazing.</p>
<p>As always, do enjoy, and stay safe!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time the elevator door chimes and swishes open, Beatrice is quite ready to drop—out of sheer exhaustion, panic, and pain.</p>
<p>Katya doesn’t return to the party, even when Rex does. Nobody knows where she’d gone, not even Bianca—and as acerbic as she is, Beatrice doesn’t think she is lying to her. The woman <em>cares</em> about Katya, that much is certain.</p>
<p>She wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.</p>
<p>Beatrice thinks she would <em>die</em> if anything <em>did</em> happen.</p>
<p>She leaves the party early, rushing to the center to have a cup of hot chocolate with the kids, spends an hour with them, talking about sponsors and interviews and how she is going to make their clothes for Caesar’s show <em>herself</em>—she has a portfolio with some of her designs and manages to alleviate some of their worry, to the point where Max starts suggesting things, and Ginger wonders if they could get fabrics in certain colors… which they surely <em>could</em>, she promises them, dead-on set on the task. Once they retire to their rooms, she calls up a few favors, gets rid of her make-up and wig, pulls on a long-time favorite dress, puts a drinks tray on the far edge of the table (for <em>later</em>), and gets to work.</p>
<p>She has Max’s jacket pinned up on a mannequin, Ginger’s dress cut out, and her own eyes dropping shut ever minute or so, by the time the needle slips and pierces the meat of her hand.</p>
<p>The pain, sharp and sudden, wakes her right up. She looks down at her hand, at the droplets trickling slowly onto the fabric in her lap, and feels <em>numb</em>, turned off, except for that white pinprick of pain.</p>
<p>The elevator chimes.</p>
<p>“Trix, <em>fuck</em>,” Katya says right next to her a moment later, and drops to the floor unceremoniously. <em>Her dress</em>, Beatrice thinks, the thought traveling to her brain from afar, <em>her beautiful dress</em>. “What do you think you’re doing? Are these—?"</p>
<p>“Costumes,” she nods, blinking slowly. “For the show.” Katya holds her wrist between both hands; her fingers are cold against Beatrice’s skin, making her tingle. Something inside the escort’s stomach drops down, low, turns into a heavy ball of warmth.</p>
<p>“They’re amazing—but should you be working on them at this time of night? Come now, let’s get up cleaned up.” Katya shifts her grip, picks up a clean piece of fabric from the table and reaches for a bottle of gin, which Beatrice never got around to trying: she had no time to mix herself a cocktail, after all. “This is probably going to hurt,” she says matter-of-factly, and pulls the needle out with one quick movement, before the escort has had a chance to react.</p>
<p>It does hurt, but not as much as she feared.</p>
<p>She watches, mesmerized, as Katya wets the piece of fabric with gin, and presses it against her mauled hand. Beatrice hisses, and Katya coos softly, rubbing the alcohol in. “’S alright, Trixie, you’re alright. We’re almost done here, don’t you worry.”</p>
<p>She nods and pushes the shirt she’s been working on away from her knees, her uninjured hand running across the material looking for blood stains. “Oh, it’s fine,” she breathes in relief, Katya quickly catching on.</p>
<p>“Leave it be, girl, you can start again tomorrow,” she speaks gently, pulling Beatrice up by her hand and elbow. “It’s great work, by the way. Should have thought about becoming a stylist.”</p>
<p>Beatrice can recognize a ploy to make her stop paying attention to the alcohol stinging her flesh, but she doesn’t mind it all <em>that</em> much. Not when there’s a much worse stinging happening around her heart. “I did. I tried.”</p>
<p>Katya raises an eyebrow and pours a little more gin on Beatrice’s hand, her grip firm and soothing against the burn. “Yeah? So why are you…?”</p>
<p> “Rex Paulus,” Beatrice answers in a low voice, eyes flicking to the corners of the room. There are bound to be cameras here. “They didn’t like it. Didn’t like my… attitude.” Katya doesn’t reply to that, but there’s something in her eyes that makes Beatrice snaps out of her reverie, the sting around her heart intensifying. “<em>Katya</em>. What did you <em>do</em>?”</p>
<p>“Nothing, princess, I promise—talked to people, laughed at bad jokes, batted my lashes, spun some wool. Nothing much. Nothing <em>else</em>.”</p>
<p>“I heard rumors—”</p>
<p>“I know,” Katya pauses and looks around, in much the same way as the escort just did. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>They don’t go out—Seven is almost exactly in the middle of the building, neither up nor down seems like a good option—but bedrooms are generally <em>thought</em> to be safer. Unless a dangerously beautiful victor in a stunning dress has just invited herself into yours.</p>
<p>Beatrice finds herself entranced once again, this time not because of pain, but because of the way Katya’s hair catches the low-light of her bedside lamp. The victor lets her go just for a moment, taking care to lock the door and shade the windows, and then she’s back at her side, gleaming and golden and absolutely stunning. The warm weight previously residing in Beatrice’s stomach moves much, <em>much</em> lower, and ripples in anticipation.</p>
<p>(What <em>exactly</em> is she anticipating is, as such, unknown.)</p>
<p>“I am playing their game, for those blasted kids,” Katya explains in a low voice, her hand back on the escort’s wrist despite the bloodied cloth having been dropped in the trash moments ago, “but I will <em>not</em> allow myself be manipulated, ever. Don’t forget it, little Trixie. Don’t doubt me. I know what they want, what they <em>need</em>—they’re not going to get it, trust and believe.”</p>
<p>“They’re <em>dangerous</em>,” Beatrice insists in a frenzied whisper, but Katya shushes her protests away.</p>
<p>“<em>I’m</em> dangerous, princess,” she smirks in the darkness, bending her head to brush her lips against the wound on Beatrice’s hand.</p>
<p>The warm, heavy weight snaps open.</p>
<p>“I’m not afraid of you, though,” Beatrice claims, raising her chin in defiance. Katya looks at her carefully, head cocked to one side.</p>
<p>“You don’t even know <em>what</em> you should be fearing.”</p>
<p>“Tell me, then. Show me all the terrible things about yourself.”</p>
<p>“You already know quite a few of them, I’m afraid.”</p>
<p>“Is there more?”</p>
<p>“There’s <em>always</em> more.”</p>
<p>Beatrice leans in.</p>
<p>Katya’s lips smell of gin.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>“Trixie,” Katya whispers against her temple, arching her back to help clumsy fingers release the clasps holding her dress together. “Slow down, girl. Let me see you.”</p>
<p>Beatrice cringes a little—she’s already a little ashamed of her real hair, not nearly as silvery as the wig, sweat-matted and hanging limp—she knows she’s curvier than most escorts, and wonders, fleetingly, whether Katya has had much experience with <em>others</em> from this group. Whatever the answer to that question, she seems happy with what she finds under Beatrice’s soft, baby pink dress: she runs her hands slowly down her torso, avoiding too close a contact with places that <em>pucker and tingle</em> in anticipation of her touch—oh, she knows <em>very well</em> what she’s doing, and Beatrice yearns to learn from her.</p>
<p>She allows herself to be kissed into soft submission, landing on the pilled up pillows of her too soft bed, and gasps as Katya’s teeth accidentally catch at the skin over her collarbone.</p>
<p>“Like that, did you?” Katya mutters smugly, this time biting down with more intent and precision. Beatrice whimpers. “Not <em>all</em> candy floss and fluff, are you?”</p>
<p>“Never said I was,” Beatrice insists breathlessly, pulling Katya up to her mouth and getting rewarded with a lovely gasp as her fingers tug sharply on a lock of hair. “You simply <em>assumed</em> I was all that.”</p>
<p>Katya’s smirk gets deeper, and more predatory. “Oh, yeah? Any other <em>assumptions</em>—” she hooks an arm around Beatrice’s hip, fingers dancing on the edge of her underwear, “—I might have got wrong?”</p>
<p>This puts a slight dampener on the entire scene. “Um,” Beatrice swallows, her grip on Katya’s hair loosening, “I mean—I am—that is, I haven’t—”</p>
<p>“Alright, now,” Katya rubs her nose against Beatrice’s, kisses her cheek. “I know. I get it. But now—are you sure? You’re tired, and scared, and I wouldn’t—”</p>
<p>Beatrice smirks up at her, despite whisps of anxiety still curling inside her belly. “Are you trying to make me believe you’re <em>noble</em>, Katya?”</p>
<p>“Not in the slightest,” the victor manages to look offended for a fracture of a moment, before her features soften into quiet concern. “But I want you to tell me <em>immediately</em> if you want to stop, alright? I’m not—like <em>other people</em>.” Like those outside this room, those who would <em>make you do things for their own enjoyment, make you a pawn in their game</em>, she doesn’t need to add.</p>
<p>They both get it.</p>
<p>So this is about trust, and about giving as much as taking, always searching for balance.</p>
<p>Beatrice’s balance is thoroughly shaken when Katya sucks at her right nipple, restored with a gentle bite to her left hipbone—and shattered completely and the victor licks into her, eyes holding Beatrice’s gaze the entire time.</p>
<p>She’s on fire. She’s invincible.</p>
<p>She arches her back helplessly, pushing against Katya’s mouth, gets devoured <em>whole</em>.</p>
<p>It’s the deep, happy rumble of satisfaction rising from the back of Katya’s throat and resonating through Beatrice’s flesh that makes her crest and fall, biting her own forearm to stifle a shout.</p>
<p>“Hush, baby girl,” Katya admonishes softly, rising up to—probably—gather Beatrice up in her arms, but she never gets a chance: the escort sees her face, wet and glistening in soft, golden light, and a new resolve rises inside her chest.</p>
<p>She doesn’t <em>know</em> what to do, but has a pretty good idea of what she <em>wants</em> to do. Katya’s back in that dress has been tantalizing her from the very first moment, and now, presented with an opportunity, she wastes on time, tracing the bumps and dips of her spine with her tongue, shaky fingers slipping between Katya’s legs opened in invitation, sliding against hot wetness, rubbing, exploring.</p>
<p>She finds a place that makes Katya shout obscenities into the frilly, Capitol-issue pillow, and makes sure to touch her <em>anywhere but there</em>, until the victor growls, reaches back, and holds her in place, one-handed, making sure Beatrice doesn’t move away.</p>
<p>She doesn’t tell her that she wouldn’t, even if she could—and she can’t, not anymore, drunk on Katya’s scent, on the power that she feels as she keeps pressure on that magical point, and pushes two fingers of her other hand deep inside Katya: as she bites at her ass cheek, and licks around her own fingers, wondering if the children on the other side of the loft can hear them despite the pillow.</p>
<p>(Half an hour later, when Katya comes back from her trip to the kitchens with a bottle of champagne, empties half of it over Beatrice’s body, slides a black, hefty device into a leather harness around her hips, bends the escort’s legs over her shoulders and <em>slams</em> into her, she’s sure everybody in the building knows <em>exactly</em> what they’re doing.)</p>
<p>It’s almost morning by the time they slow down, skin sticking together with champagne and bodily fluids, both of them hoarse and out of breath. Trixie—she lost Beatrice sometime during this night, and isn’t quite eager to look for her at present—nuzzles at Katya’s belly button, eliciting a soft, tired chuckle. “Let the old lady rest, baby,” the victor admonishes gently from above, even as her fingers tweak Trixie’s sore nipple. “It’s not our last night in the world.”</p>
<p>“It could be,” Trixie speaks quietly into her skin, arms locked around Katya’s hips in a tight embrace. “Katya. What are we going to do?”</p>
<p>Katya pulls her up and kisses her, slowly and surely, in a way that already feels more familiar to Trixie than the cadence of her own breath. “Easy, Trix.</p>
<p>“We’re going to win.”</p>
<p>
  <strong>/TBC</strong>
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